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by sweetxtangerine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetxtangerine/pseuds/sweetxtangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail survives the events of the Season Two finale but Hannibal gets two shots to the back of the head by Will. </p><p>It's Will and Abigail's first Christmas together.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Apparently this is what happens when I neglect finishing other fics. 
> 
> I just really love winter and Abigail and want to imagine a universe where she and Will could be a happy family together.

Abigail peers through the window, thankful to be inside by the heat of the fire rather than out. It's white outside, blindingly so, with the heavy blanket of snow that has enveloped the world around. Large wet snowflakes continue to fall and it's magical and almost undisturbed but for the footsteps and paw prints leading out from the deck. It's unbelievably picturesque. It's not nearly as cold as it should be, but it reminds her of Minnesota. Of home. The flurry picks up and the tracks leading out will soon be gone. Buster jumps up onto her lap to stare out the window with her and she scratches behind his ears as, in the distance, she sees a growing Will.

He's only a speck, and he's moving slowly, but it's only a minute longer before she can make out the strain of his back as he drags a small pine tree behind him, Winston bounding along at his heels. Another several minutes and he's close enough that she can see he's grinning. His nose and cheeks are rosy, despite the scarf he has bundled up to his chin, and his hat is pulled down over his ears. The hair that escapes is curled from the damp of melting snowflakes. 

The tree he's dragging is not the largest she's had; she remembers once, when she was fourteen, her father got an enormous balsam fir that she and her mother had helped hoist onto the van, and when they got it up to the house it had taken a solid hour to get through the door. When they finally managed to stand it up in the living room, the branches had brushed the ceiling, leaving no room for a star. The one Will is dragging is much more manageable. Not huge, but still substantial. Ambitious too, she thinks, for a man whose abdominal scars are still in the process of healing. 

In no time at all he's looking in through the window and she's grinning back at him before she jumps to her feet to let Winston in, and to give him a hand.

 

It's been good, these past few months. The gouge across Will's abdomen where he was gutted has healed into a raised and shiny pink scar. It's sensitive, still, but he's been able to move more and more, and the pain is no longer a deterrent, just an annoyance. The second scar on Abigail's throat is healing too, jagged and ugly where it overlaps with the first. She's more diligent in wearing scarves these days, but the pain is almost gone. Besides, scarves suit the season.

Standing together on the porch, they brush off the snow from the limbs of the tree. It's sticky, perfect for snowball fights, but neither of them are up for the exertion, and so together they finish clearing the branches.

An hour later and the tree is stood neatly in the corner of the room, carefully fit into its stand, a mat laid at its foot protecting the floor from pine needles. With the fire crackling and the fresh cut tree, the room is filled with the smell of smoke and evergreen and winter and it's marvellous. 

 

Abigail sits back in an armchair by the fire, tartan throw across her lap and dogs curled up at her feet. It's only four o'clock but the sun is setting, casting long, long shadows and a brilliant orange glow that reflects off of the world outside.

"Those aren't tree trimmings," Abigail raises an eyebrow as Will comes back to the living room, not with a box of red and gold ornaments, but two glasses, a carton, and a bottle of bourbon.

"No, they're not," He agrees, and smiles. "I thought that we deserved a little break from the tree. Do you like eggnog?"

"I do," She nods and he sits down across from her, making sure not to tread on any dogs. He pours carefully.

"Does this mean I get some bourbon in mine?" She asks, smirking.

"No, you're too young," Will snorts as he stirs a couple of capfuls into each glass. He hands one to her and she sips tentatively, swallows, and exhales with a whistle.

"Thanks," she says, and he raises his glass.

"To surviving." He toasts.

"To thriving." She smiles, and then her face falls a little.

Will frowns. "Are you alright?"

She nods, and forces a smile. They sit in silence for a moment before she sits forward, a fire growing in her, fist that isn't holding the glass curled, and spits, "I'm glad he's dead."

It's full of anger and hurt and she looks like she's almost surprised at how forcefully she spoke, at how she's now leaned forward on the edge of her seat. Will looks surprised for only a split second and then nods at her, sympathetic.

"After everything he did to me, to us!" She growls, jaw clenched in defiance, "I'm glad he's in the ground. He cut my throat, my ear, what he did to Bev, he  _disemboweled_ you. What he made me do to  _Alana_!" Will leans forward and takes the glass from her hand gently to stop it from spilling, and when he does, she relaxes. 

Abigail stares into Wills eyes and barely whispers. "I'm tired of powerful men manipulating me. My father was bad enough but--"

Will stops her. "I know, Abigail. You've been through more in twenty years than anyone should in their life. They manipulated and abused you and you deserve so much better."

She nods, though with little conviction. It's weak, listless. She speaks again, quieter still. "Will, I miss him."

Her face is obscured in shadow and Will can only just see the glistening of tears streaming down her cheeks from the light of the fire.

"Is that wrong?" She asks.

He takes her hands and holds them, steadying her. She's far away in her own head--a side effect of a year in captivity.

"Probably," he mutters, and her eyes flicker up at him. "But I miss him too."

She nods. Wipes her tears with the sleeve of her sweater.

"Abigail, you have survived some of the worst situations imaginable. Your throat was cut,  _twice_ , by two separate father figures no less. You've lost an ear. Held captive in a basement for a year. You saw what Hannibal did to people." His jaw clenches and he exhales through his teeth. She stares at him.

"And yet," his face softens, "Here we are. I didn't think I'd ever see you again but now we're sat in my living room with the dogs at our feet, fireplace crackling, and drinking eggnog before decorating the Christmas tree. We're surrounded by people who love us, and we even got a card from Dr Chilton."

He smirks.

"Though, that may be an attempt at apology for not believing me before he ended up with corpses on his property."

She cracks a smile and nods again. "Do you regret it ever? Killing Hannibal?"

He starts to nod but stops himself and shakes his head. "I miss him. But I'm glad I killed him. It felt... Just. Especially as I was bleeding out."

"A man so bad that killing him felt good?" She asks, and he feels a flicker of recognition to the conversation he and Hannibal had had when Abigail first came into his life.

"Yes." He says.

They sit there in comfortable silence, sipping their eggnog, the heat from the fire keeping them cozy.

Then Abigail looks back at Will and grins. 

"You know, that tree is looking pretty bare. It could use some trimming."

He smiles back. "You know, I think you're right." 

Will sets his glass down and stands up, but before he can make for the box of ornaments, Abigail grabs his hand. 

"Merry Christmas, Will."

He squeezes it.

"Merry Christmas, Abigail."


End file.
